


Strangers in a Strange Land

by RadioCybertron



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, War, dissolution of a civilization, dysutopia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:00:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioCybertron/pseuds/RadioCybertron
Summary: Snippets of Optimus and Megatron, and trying to adapt to a post-war world in which neither of them are really wanted.
Or needed.





	1. Blood on your hands

[ **Speech to Include:** ](http://towriteprompts.tumblr.com/post/66788959465/speech-to-include)

##  _“Even though it has been years, the blood is still on your hands.”_ \- _anonymous_

* * *

He never wanted them to put him on a pedestal. 

They had taken him, had taken the very idea of who he had used to be- and had turned him into an image. He had been chosen to lead them out of a darkened era, into an age of prosperity.

But instead, they had turned him into a false idol and worshiped a different god.

He wonders if Primus weeps beneath his pedes, in his tomb underground. He wouldn’t blame him if he did. Once upon a time, the Prime _led_. Now, the Prime was used in advertisements. Neon lit up where once darkness had reigned. Businesses grew in the acid rains like organic mushrooms. Cities began, flourished and blossomed.

And for a time, it was good and he was happy.

Except that he wasn’t.

_They_ had come. Their ships had arrived by the dozens, and soon by the hundreds. Unaffiliated Cybertronians with no loyalty except to the credit they had ran to so valiantly to protect. They had infested and flourished, a battery of crunchbugs flushed out of a tunnel before the executioner. 

They had overtaken and overrun everything. The Autobots, who had for so long withstood everything the Decepticons had thrown at them- were washed away in the tide of neutrality- in an ocean of civilian life. They floundered, and many of them failed. Many were still drowning in depression.

Himself included.

As for the Decepticons?

He can’t find them. 

Some, he knows- ran and left planet. The Seekers left to establish a colony of New Vos on one of the outer moons around Hadeen. Soundwave stayed, but has remained hidden- somewhere in the shadows that throw their long cloaks out over the city. 

And… Megatron.

He cannot _find_ him. 

The former Decepticon war-leader had retreated with his command staff, and in the dust of settling and in the storms of neutral takeover- he had all but vanished.

Megatron was now more feared as legend and myth more than mech.

A monster to scare sparklings with.

That legacy saddens him and so does the current news, the Registration Act and the rounding up of Decepticons once more. They had argued more than once, he and his silver shadow- about what it meant to be free. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, Megatron had argued- unless you were deemed to be a Decepticon.

Then such things as second chances did not exist. It was either all, or you were nothing.

And at the time, he had scoffed- so convinced in his own moral superiority.

He would give anything to hear that gruff voice tearing into him once more.

Their last conversation, had predictably- been an argument over treaty terms. Megatron had been right, they were too harsh- but he could not see that then. He can see it now. 

_“You’re so convinced of your moral self, Optimus- you spout your freedoms, but freedom isn’t free unless it includes everyone! Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, except Decepticons. How do you reconcile that?”_

_“I never said that! Stop twisting my words, Megatron. I do not want to twist anything, and the Decepticons have to pay for what damages they have caused. You included.”  
_

_“And what then, who determines what we have to pay and how much? Who determines just how much spilled fuel is enough? You have just as much blood on your hands, as I do mine- even after all these vorns, **Prime**.”  
_

Megatron had never put him on pedestal. He had brought him up, to tear him down and rebuild him. He had found himself in those moments, squared up against someone who wanted no quarter.

Who gave none back.

He realizes now that maybe somewhere, in all of those twisted loops of emotions, tangled and dark- that he loved him too, and in his own way- Megatron had reciprocated. 

And that is why, out past the bright lights of Neo-Iaconia and skirting the edges of the Rust Sea he follows a set of prints probably a few decaorns old. He wants to talk. 

He wants to apologize.

But mostly, he wants to find the mech that challenged him in all ways- and ask him one last question.

_“Come home with me.”_

It’s a long shot, but Megatron has taught him- if nothing else, that challenges are meant to be overcome. That, in it self- gives him hope, and brings a faint smile to his lips. Maybe he’s here, and maybe he isn’t- but the least he can do is try. Cybertron doesn’t need him anymore, but maybe Megatron will. 

He never wanted to be put on a pedestal, but he’ll settle for walking side-by-side.


	2. You're too young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Optimus still travels.

##  _“You're too young to hate the world.”_ \- _anonymous_

* * *

 

_Ain't it a shame._  
that we play the game.  
try to shed our fame.  
but everything stays the same.

The silence of the world is a pressing thing.

He travels in the dust and darkness, bypassing the equatorial rim as he heads down towards the ruins of what used to be the heart of Kaon’s city state. He remembers being so angry about the state of the mecha here, so bitter about their treatment.

_“You’re too young to hate the world,” the voice had rumbled in his audial as they had curled on the narrow gladiator’s berth together._

_“But something has to be done, Megatronus. Your people, they starve. They work for nothing, receive nothing and are given nothing but derision,” his voice old and young, tired and infuriated at the same time._

_“That is true, Orion Pax- but they are **our** people. But they are also strong of spark, and of processor. They are a nation of survivors, of doers and of thinkers. And one day, they will rise up,” strong arms had encircled him at this point, pulling him flush against a warmer frame. “And you will be there to see it with me.”_

And he had been.

But oh, now the Senate had not listened to the words of a mere gladiator.  Too brash, they had called him- above his station, and above his status. How he had no right to speak these words, he should be grateful for what he had, for what he was.

And they had listened to him, a mere clerk- several castes above the warrior whom he had involuntarily wounded so.

A thousand steps from the bright lights of Neo-Iaconia, and the world is a wasteland. Still, he follows those steps. They lead him to the middle of the city, down past where the few elite used to play. They lead him further down, down and down until they come to the pits where those who could not afford to live died at the hands and swords of others.

The place is a monument to greed, a mausoleum full of ghosts and silence.  In the back of his processor, he can hear the roars of the crowd, thin and stretched across the fabric of space, time and memory. He can see the wisps of figures as they dance through the crystalized sand on the the Pit-that-was. He shakes his helm, continuing on and trying to ignore the blackened stains of millennia old energon.

He supposes it shouldn’t be a surprise that Soundwave is the first mecha that he meets here, or rather- Lazerbeak. The symbiote is perched on a piece of broken wall, watching him with those inquisitive dark optics and a tilted helm. He reaches out with an arm, offering her a roost. Surprisingly, she takes off and lands on his shoulderstrut- a welcome weight in the dusty loneliness.

“Soundwave is watching, isn’t he.”

_Chirrup-cree_

“I thought so,” he rumbles- reaching absently to brush over the fine platelets on her helm.

It’s a welcome thought to know that his visit has been noticed, that somewhere- even if he cannot find Megatron, that his companions still live. Starscream is the Premier of new Vos, cemented his rule and vowing never to return. He can’t blame him, given the anti-veteran sentiment that rules the political tide right now. Even Prowl threw in his own resignation after a nasty legal battle that was won in his favor. It all but made him retire or risk losing what pension he had gained.

As for his wayward third in command?

He hasn’t see him since the dissolution of the special operations unit. He hopes he’s all right. It seems that at the end of the world, the Decepticons at least kept tabs on each other. He’s fairly sure that Soundwave, if no one else, knows where the others are.

Maybe he can persuade him first.

It hurts, however, to walk through the ruins- and to see the mix of optics that stare at him hopefully from the ruins of what used to be a city. Blue and red, mixed with purple and green- blinking and dim, sometimes disappearing completely into the darkness of the shadows. So many left behind, so many pushed to the side and marginalized.

And for what reason?

“Megatron’s been helping them, hasn’t he?”

_Creeeeeeel-chirrrrr_.

“I thought so,” he rumbles to himself.

He knows that to the south of the ruins of Kaon and Tarn lie the Manganese Mountains. Once upon a time, Megatron hid here during the beginning of the Autobot assaults against Kaon, and he knows that somewhere within the dangerous canyons and twisting cave systems that infest the area is the possibility of finding his old nemesis.

And oldest friend.

He turns his pace again, pausing long enough to rove optics over the starving frames and thin faces that look at him with careful hope, nodding to each of them in return. His own helm swivels south, towards the jagged teeth of the mountains in the distance. He starts out alone, but smiles quietly as the tread of pedes behind him begins to increase.

Maybe he cannot convince Megatron on his own, but then again- maybe he won’t have to.

“Tell Soundwave we’re coming home.”

His shoulder’s weight lifts as the symbiote pushes off, using the thermals to wing her way upwards until she’s nothing more than a black speck on the horizon. He knows Soundwave was already listening, but it’s symbolic, and its trust.

And maybe, just maybe- he’s taking the first steps in the right direction for the first time in a long while.

It’s all about hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self indulgent nonsense yet again.


	3. Sunrise, Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus finds what he's looking for, but not in the way he was looking for it. Funny how fate does that to you.

_What words of wisdom can I give them,_   
_How can I help to ease their way?_   
_Now they must learn from one another,_   
_Day by day._

_-Fiddler on the Roof [Tevye + Golde]_

* * *

 

In the end, it’s Megatron that finds _him_. 

A hastily thrown together encampment, full of lean-tos and shanties built to withstand the harsh Wasteland winds. Silica and glass ping against the metal walls as the storm whips around them, unpredictable and harsh here so close to the poles. He manages to find a small crevice of a cave to himself.

He slips into recharge alone, Lazerbeak guarding the doorway to his makeshift domicile. Some of the more war-wary remain awake and alert, allowing the others to slide off into rest. These spend the dark hours in soft song, and chatter- keeping each other online and together.

Somehow, the former warlord manages to elude them all, pausing to crouch down at the pede of the once-and-again Prime with the flying symbiote perched precariously on a blunted shoulder-strut. He comes online with a start, but with no weapon to defend himself- they merely stare at each other for a good moment.

At least until Lazerbeak churrs faintly- picking at the pieces of grit and crystal in the seams of Megatron’s armor with a faintly disapproving sound. It’s such an innocuous thing, that it startles Optimus out of his reverie.

And makes him laugh.

The silvered mech squints quietly, finally allowing himself to settle carefully at the entrance. The storm rages outside of their odd little calm, flashes of electricity beyond them occasionally illuminating the interior- and themselves. The former prime clears his throat as an awkward silence settles in after his laughter fades. 

Now that he’s found him, he’s uncertain of how to proceed.

The facemask withdraws and he swallows, the cables in his throat undulating thickly as he tries to make all the words he’d said in his processor trickle down to his glossa. Every speech, every persuasive word he’d thought of on the way down here sticks like gel against metal. A faint, frustrated sound escapes before he suddenly finds himself enveloped in living metal.

Blue optics widen, then squint closed as thick arms wrap around him to drag him against a scarred, pitted chestplate. He tries to open his mouth again, but nothing comes out except static and binary. Nonsensical words and sounds that meander almost on the hysterical, and he tries to draw them back- but the harder the attempt.

The more they come out.

In the end, all he can do is cling to that thick, furrowed armor and keen in hitches between vents. Clawed servos find their way into the seams of his armor, and his helm is tucked under the other’s. He knows Megatron is speaking, but he cannot make sense of it.

Maybe because he cannot make sense of himself at the moment.

Lazerbeak chirrs softly, watching them. Her own slight weight comes to rest on his knee- peering up at him intently, and to his slight surprise, concern. Her flight plating ruffles as she picks at him the same way that she picked at Megatron, grooming him almost.

“She does that, when she’s anxious. When someone else is anxious,” comes the first comprehensible words in the voice he’s waited so long to hear from.

“O-oh?” He hides a grimace at the shaky static in his vocalizer, resetting it with a soft click to clear.

The larger mech nods, leaning his helm back against the roughly hewn wall. Optimus can see the exhaustion from here, the residue of dust and burnt chemicals on servo-tips from blast explosives and mining equipment. He can see the way in which the other flexes his wrist and fingers, the slight swollen cast of the components.

He must have come here straight from the mines.

“The storm will take a while to clear, Optimus.”

And indeed, the winds have intensified- the makeshift town having moved themselves into a protective semicircle in the lee side of the outcroppings. What other fissures have remained open have likewise been occupied by mechs such as themselves.

But he knows Megatron, and he _always_ speaks on more than one level. 

He tilts his helm at that, pushing up and shifting over so that he settles beside- one hand sliding through the dust and grit until he find’s his, tentatively resting fingers together.

“Then we’ll weather it _together_.”

He smiles faintly at the light curl of a finger against his, as it’s all the answer he needs for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lateness and the shortness on this one, but I've got family down for the week- and I'm going to be out of town on the next weekend. So D: I wanted a chapter out, but I'm sorry it's so short. Happy Thanksgiving and Happy Holidays everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> More self-indulgent nonsense.


End file.
